Trust, Charity, & the Fine Art of Incompetence
by freudian fuckup
Summary: In light of their respective roles in the apocalypse-that-wasn't, Aziraphale and Crowley have been given new assignments to keep them busy. Things do not go as planned. A/C
1. Chapter 1, in which Crowley is drunk

The world had just experienced the most anti-climactic apocalypse in the history of, well, history, and Crowley, rather, than be delighted at the amusing upset it had caused amongst the higher-ups, felt muddled. And drunk. Mostly drunk.

He was on a scale – a slippery, slidey scale – of drunkenness competing with the state of being muddled. Until two drinks ago, muddled had been winning by a landslide. He wasn't sure he'd ever been so intoxicated before, actually, and it was interesting the things he found himself hyper-aware of and the things he failed to notice altogether. The carpet in his flat, for instance, was very _clean_ looking. Disconcertingly so. Crowley poured himself another scotch, sloppily. He then poured it onto the floor. The stain it created bloomed outward like a jungle flower, lush and rich against the white backdrop. Crowley chuckled quietly.

He should have been pleased, he supposed. Things had worked out almost perfectly. No apocalypse meant no messy cleanup, which was nice in and of itself, and the whole thing was such a tremendous PR nightmare Down There that the powers that be had decided to take a strict "don't ask, don't tell" policy regarding Crowley's involvement, which spared him a great deal of paper work and unpleasant arse-kissing.1

The only problem was that Crowley had, for lack of a better expression, lost his sense of Purpose. Oh sure, drinking was lovely, and eating was fine, and television was easily one of the most entertainingly evil things humanity had ever invented, but it all lacked a certain _something_. No one had triumphed. There'd been no resolution. Someone2 had hit "pause" on the VCR of the universe, but sooner or later, they were going to finish their ineffable loo break and then, well, there won't be any "then's" left. Crowley seriously doubted whether any other entity in the universe could possibly understand the position he was being put in – the overwhelming relief coupled with a tinge of hopelessness. The idleness of it all.

There was a knock at the door.

"Go away," Crowley shouted, trying not to slur. He could have sobered up, of course, but it'd taken him three days to get this drunk, and he wasn't about to waste his many hours of diligent drinking for the sake of social niceties.

"I'm not going away, Crowley. And if you don't let me in, I'm going to tell your plants you care for them very deeply."

Crowley shuddered involuntarily, but made a vague, sloppy gesture, and the door swung open.

"Really, my dear, miracling the door opened. Since when was sloth your specialty?"

"Sss'not," Crowley said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Oh my. Oh my, my, my. Is this all you've been doing?"

"Not _all_. I did those, too." Crowley gestured towards a series of rather lewdly sculpted shrubs in the corner, which, Crowley assumed, he'd rendered in his drunken angst.

"Oh, that _is_ tasteless. Even for you, my dear."

"Wha? Thought it was funny. 'is funny. You wouldn't know funny if it buggered you up the—"

"Tea?" interrupted the angel, pulling a kettle from a cupboard Crowley didn't remember having.

"Can I put scotch in it?"

"No."

"Can I put it in my scotch?"

Aziraphale sighed in the manner of a patient, yet underpaid, school marm. "No."

"Then no. I'm all set, thanks." He brandished his flask, spilling some on the carpet.

"Alright, that's quite enough. Sober up please, or I am leaving."

Crowley snorted. "Alright."

Aziraphale paused for a moment until Crowley sighed and said, exasperatedly, "Alright, you can leave. I didn't asssk you to come, you know."

"Ah, but I believe I have some information in which you might be interested, my dear."

Crowley eyed the angel warily. He was glowing, which was not unusual, merely irritating.

"What information?"

"Sober, please," Aziraphale said, almost cheekily, as if he were capable of possessing such a quality.

Crowley let out a little hiss of frustration and shook his head a few times. The feeling of alcohol leaving one's system so rapidly never ceased to be an uncomfortable experience. It was like four hours of intoxication condensed into three seconds.

"Heaven has asked me to file a _report_," Aziraphale said dramatically.

Crowley raised one disbelieving eyebrow in return. "Well. After four millennia of filing reports, that _is_ interesting information. Really, angel. Now, if you'll please hand me that tumbler, I'll be on my way."

"On your way where?"

"I don't know, but you don't seem to be going anywhere, so I thought perhaps I'd got mixed up and this was your flat I'm sitting in the floor of." Crowley made a spectacle of looking around in confusion. "No, wait, you don't seem the type to own an automatic coffee maker. I guess this is my place after all. Goodbye," he added pleasantly.

"Don't you want to know what the report is supposed to be about?" Aziraphale asked with a smile that would have been positively serpentine in any other company.

"Not particularly," Crowley muttered, certain that the angel was going to tell him, regardless.

"You."

"I what?"

"You. It's to be about you. And your – what did they call it? Your F.A.R.P."

"My what now?"

"Your Felled Angel Redemption Potential. It's all the rage up there, it seems. Some up-and-comer has it in his ethereal head that the best way to smite hell is to convince its agents," Aziraphale nodded in Crowley's general direction, "to turncoat."

Crowley was torn between being insulted and laughing hysterically. He settled for something in the vicinity of baffled twitching. "And what's the success rate like so far?"

"There _is_ no success rate," Aziraphale said irritably.

"That's 'cause it's a bloody stupid idea!"

"They prefer 'initiative.' And yes, it rather is," Aziraphale conceded.

"How like a bunch of bureaucratic featherheads to think they can just—" Crowley trailed off into a series of increasingly furious hand gestures.

"That's what I said."

"So why did you take the assignment? I thought you were sort of a freelance angel these days, take the jobs you like and whatnot."

"_Because_, it is so ridiculous, so outlandishly ambitious that I thought it might appease the powers that be. They're still a bit titchy about our triumphant last stand against the apocalypse, you know."

Crowley nodded.

"At least they're still talking to you," he said, and immediately regretted it when Aziraphale's face went all soft and sympathetic looking, as though Crowley was a wounded kitten in a designer suit.

"My dear, have they still not contacted you? I mean, I realise forgiveness isn't a priority, but you're one of their best agents. Surely they'll have—"

"They haven't, alright? Look, it's not the end of the world—or not anymore, at least."

"What do you think it means?" Aziraphale asked gently.

Crowley sighed heavily and stared at a bit of wall that was remarkable only in that it was not Aziraphale's face.

"It means that either they've decided I've gone native and are giving me the cold shoulder, or they're cooking up some particularly nasty assignment as penance and it's stuck in a bureaucratic pipeline somewhere… festering and whatnot." He shuddered for the second time in a half hour, and wished a painful eternity upon whoever invented the concept of fraternizing with the enemy. He worried that it might have been him.

"Oh. Oh dear," Aziraphale said with vomit-worthy sympathy.

"Don't sigh at me, angel. So I knock around here for a few centuries without an assignment. So what? Who cares?"

"You do, it seems," Aziraphale said kindly, glancing pointedly at the scorch-marks where Crowley had grabbed his sofa in irritation.

"No. I do not. Are we clear?" Crowley said.

"Alright, no need to get all… hot under the collar."

Crowley glared. "Bloody ha. You're a riot. Now, can I please stop being sober?"

"Only if I can join you," Aziraphale said, settling himself on the opposite side of the sofa.

Crowley took a long sip from the flask and wordlessly handed it to Aziraphale, without so much as a glance.

1 Not that there was any other kind in hell.

2 And Crowley had a sneaking suspicion as to whom.


	2. Chapter 2, in which hell is paid

"_Listen_, old chap, it's not that I don't treasure our time together, it's just that I was sort of busy up there."

A fine mist of blood hit Crowley's tailored black suit, and he did his best not to look annoyed. _Being_ annoyed in hell was one thing. Everyone in hell was annoyed. It was _looking_ annoyed that could get you into trouble.

"Perhaps I could just run along now, and we'll do lunch later in the week. Have you ever been to the Ritz?" Crowley suggested hopefully. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the occasional visit, but all the screams of torment and prickly colleagues got a bit tedious. This was probably why he preferred life as a field agent.

Something pea-green and gooey splattered the hellishly-shiny leather of Crowley's obscenely expensive designer shoes. This time, he cringed slightly. He immediately regretted it.

"What's wrong, _my dear_? Not enjoying the show?" Hastur chanted, his voice brimming with dislike.

The lesser-demon being slowly deconstructed in front of them chose that moment to let out a particularly tortured cry, and Crowley waited for him to quiet down before responding.

"Oh, you know I've never been much for the nitty-gritty. I prefer to leave the dirty bits to you brute-types," Crowley said coolly, relishing the frustration that flooded Hastur's face.

"Doing His work is not shameful! What have _you_ done for Him lately, _Crawley_?" The demon spat, glaring at Crowley as though he was something distasteful one might find stuck to the bottom of one's hoof.

"It's 'Crowley', thank you. And if He weren't pleased with my work, I'm sure He'd have mentioned it. He's never been shy with the job evaluations," Crowley replied, checking his watch. It never ran properly in Hell1 but it was a habitual gesture, and one that Crowley found comforting.

Hastur let out a laugh that would have been terrifying in any other setting. Crowley started to wonder what he was on about, but decided he didn't much care. It was getting late on Earth and he had reservations (not that he needed them.) Suddenly, the floor opened up, and Beelzebub entered, dramatically2

"Crawley!" He bellowed.

Crowley blanched.

"It's Crowley. It's been Crowley for about four-thousand years now. Who updates the rolodexes around here, because I've a bloody thing or two to say about—"

"You have _strayed_ from _The Path!_" Beelzebub continued, unperturbed.

"There's a path—ehr, Path, is there? First I've heard of it."

Beelzebub simmered. It was terribly impressive.

Crowley barreled onward. "I thought the whole point of being a demon was to destroy the path, lay waste to it, lead those that walk it astray, and what not. No?" He ventured hesitantly.

"He is not pleased. I am not pleased. We are not pleased," Beelzebub said.

"Yeah! We are not!" Hastur added, far louder and yet far less imposingly.

"Not pleased? Did you miss the bit with the dairy truck yesterday? Milk ran like blood through the streets. Like blood!"

"But it was _not_ blood. There has been very little blood from you, recently. Why is this?" Beelzebub asked. Something maggoty and unpleasant crawled out of his eye and into one ear. He didn't blink.

Crowley felt the space where his organs should have been clench. He broke into a sweat. He probably would have broken into a _cold_ sweat, but this was Hell, after all.

"I've been busy?"

"Busy with _what?_ Your _only_ job is to create pain and suffering," Hastur growled.

"Yes, well, you don't know what it's like up there! I have to do things to – to blend! How would it look if I went around all half-cocked, blowing things to pieces and getting my suit wrinkled?"

"It would look like you were doing your job," Hastur muttered. Beelzebub glared and Hastur shrunk back into his shadow.

"And what of the Principality?" Beelzebub rumbled. A few nearby rocks trembled and slid into the pit.

"The what now?" Crowley replied, his voice a note or two too high.

"Do not play dumb, Crawley. You are dumb enough already," Beelzebub said.

"You mean Aziraphale? He's just a… a field agent from the other side. Been around for ages, no real threat in'im," Crowley said, dusting the brimstone from his sleeves intently. "Bit of a poufter, I think," he added confidentially.

Beelzebub laughed a deep, bubbling laugh, like lava suffocating a remote village. "Yet, you have not Felled him?"

Crowley looked up. "Well, _no_, but I mean, it's not like he's been after my head with a bucket of Holy Water, either. It doesn't seem sporting."

"You are a DEMON. You do not have to BE sporting," Beelzebub bellowed.

Crowley involuntarily stepped back. "Alright, alright, no need to get testy." He paused a moment to regroup and to tell the little voice in his head to stop shrieking so girlishly. "I mean, I suppose I could take a crack at the – Felling, if you'd like. But I might warn you, that angel has a righteous staff so far up his arse, it's going to be difficult to dislodge."

Hastur chuckled lewdly and shrieked, "Well, maybe you can replace it with a staff of a different nature!"

Beelzebub did something similar to what humans call rolling their eyes, but instead of appearing petulant, it came off rather threatening. "The maggot is right. You have an assignment, Crawley, one which you will complete."

"But what if I—"

"You WILL complete it."

Crowley hissed. There was plenty of arguing in hell. It was sort of a theme. But there was very little winning-of-arguments.

"Right. Would you like him gift-wrapped, as well?"

Hastur opened his mouth but Beelzebub silenced him with a sharp glance. "That will not be necessary."

1 Something about the agony of souls fussed with the electrical current

2 Not that he was capable of entering in any other manner.


	3. Chapter 3, in which ducks are fed

It was a good day to be a duck. More specifically, it was a good day to be a duck in St. James Park. Two regulars were sitting on a bench quite near the water, and the one that looked like he might own more than one Liberace album was dolling out breadcrumbs from the world's most deceptively small paper bag, while the one that looked like he might own a gun looked on anxiously.

"This is… highly inconvenient, of course," said the one with the bread. A particularly ambitious duckling pecked at his ankle. He tossed a handful of bread onto the duckling's head, and it squawked delightedly.

"Inconvenient? Understatement of the century. I'm telling you, Hastur was ready to throw me in the pit then and there. I might be the only being in existence that owes its life to the mercy of Beelzebub. I doubt I'll be so lucky next time," said the one with the dark glasses.

"No, I would imagine not."

There was a long pause, during which a drake got spunky and head-butted an Armani-clad leg in hopes of another bread shower. He received a swift, Armani-clad kick for his trouble, before the blond one clucked disapprovingly and rained down breadcrumbs like so much manna.

"Crowley?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you. For telling me. I know this isn't easy for you. Much worse than it is for me."

"Don't be stupid. Of course I'm telling you. What, like you wouldn't have got wise when I stuck my hand down your—"

"Crowley."

"Only joking."

The sun began to set over the pond rather majestically, and when every duck had eaten its fill, there was a mass, ducky exodus, in which little webbed feet paddled across the water towards wherever city ducks go at night. Several minutes later, the dangerous looking chap checks his watch and, without a word, the pair strolled away towards dinner and drink, elbows brushing carelessly all the while.


	4. Chapter 4, in which wine is consumed

"Have I ever had the bisque?"

Aziraphale smiled faintly. "You've had _everything_, my dear. Multiple times."

Crowley fretted a moment, eyes darting over the menu once more, fruitlessly. Of course he'd had the bisque. It was one of the central problems with being as immortal as one was gluttonous—the nicer the restaurant, the less frequently the menu changed. He wished they served a particular lamb dish that he'd once had at a brothel in Mesopotamia, so of course it was the special that evening. When the waiter came by, Crowley was exceedingly genteel about ordering it, but the angel still shot him a look. On the way home, the chef would find twenty quid in a sewer grate.

"So," Aziraphale said, the moment the waiter was out of earshot, "I suppose we'd better get it out of the way."

Crowley looked at him from over the rim of his wineglass and said blandly, "What's that then?" He cocked his head a little to the side, like a confused puppy. It would have been rather endearing if he hadn't resembled the sort of puppy that might rip out your throat if you took away its kibble.

"The Arrangement, or the reorganization thereof," Aziraphale muttered exasperatedly. The muttering was unnecessary, of course, because no one _ever_ overheard Crowley's conversations, regardless of their volume, and "The Arrangement," to the uninformed listener, sounded more like a bank transaction than a philosophical agreement that altered the nature of conflict between good and evil.

Crowley looked up sharply. "What reorganization? Who's reorganizing? If you're going to start thwarting me all willy-nilly again, I deserve some notice. It's not fair to spring that sort of thing on a demon," Crowley said, feigning outrage.

"What? No, of course not, don't be silly. It's just that, well. Things _are_ different, aren't they?" Aziraphale said, with wide, wondering eyes.

Crowley chuckled and his glass refilled itself. A passing waiter noticed this oddity, but suddenly remembered that he'd left the iron on (though he didn't own an iron) and rushed off to right it.

"Good, because I let that minor miracle with the chef slide on the basis that you are going to ignore this—"

The flames of the baked Alaska at the next table leapt inexplicably onto the hair of a posh looking blonde, causing her to shriek and flail about in a manner Crowley found rather amusing. Aziraphale glared half-heartedly and empties his wineglass as several of the waitstaff rushed to aid the flaming woman in her loud, busty distress.

"Was that _really_ necessary?"

"I was making a point!" Crowley enunciated, sounding distinctly self-righteous, which took extra effort considering that he was, by nature, distinctly un-righteous. "Besides," he added begrudgingly, "she's not that man's wife, and her scalp being half-scorched will keep him from committing any adultery tonight, I should think."

The angel smiled smugly and refilled his glass, by hand of course. Crowley glared at him and pointedly replenished the bread basket with a gesture.

"So, back to the topic at hand," Crowley said tiredly. One of the irritations of being immortal and lacking a wide social circle was that conversations you didn't want to have in the first place had a way of resurfacing at really inopportune moments1, so Crowley had made it a point not to let things fester. This applied doubly where Aziraphale is concerned, because all hellish connotations aside, the angel had a head harder than a goat's, and he did _not_ forget things. Ever2.

"Yes, well, it's just that – are you even _listening?_" Aziraphale sighed, sounding like someone's exasperated mother.

Crowley let out a frustrated huff and stopped attempting to rewrite the reservations book using the names of famous serial killers.

"I am, I am. _Do_ go on," he said, with mock politeness that could only _just_ pass for painfully English.

"The thing is. I am not entirely certain how our tasks are meant to coexist," Aziraphale said seriously.

Crowley frowned. "Angel, do we really have to discuss—"

"Yes, Crowley, I rather think we do. I can't justify spending half my time with someone who is trying very hard to Fell me. I can't justify it to Heaven, and I certainly can't justify it to myself."

Crowley opened his mouth to argue, but stopped short. He was not in the habit of convincing people to like him,3 so it was odd that he felt the need to make Aziraphale stop being an idiot about this, because he didn't want to spend the next several millenniums dinking around London on his own _almost_ as badly as he didn't want to spend them roasting on a spit.

"Then we just, we'll just have to come up with a solution then," Crowley said with a tone of confidence he did not feel but was the world's foremost expert in feigning.

Aziraphale smiled the smile he used when he was being Wise at some poor, naïve human. "Is there one, though?"

"There has to be."

"Perhaps there isn't this time," Aziraphale said meaningfully, taking a sip of his wine for dramatic effect.

Crowley hissed quietly through the next three courses.

1Like when one was _trying_ to incite a revolt, not discuss that unfortunate incident with the Queen's headdress ala flambé, which had happened almost six-hundred years ago, for somebody's sake, and should really be water under ineffable bridge by now.

2 Even if one was high on opium at the time and honestly thought the girl was saying "aardvark."

3Except for when it was to make it hurt more when he inevitably betrayed them (betrayal being an excellent catalyst for all sorts of nasty human impulses.)


	5. Chapter 5, in which an effort is made

"Is it my imagination, or is it… _whiter_ in here than usual?" Aziraphale asked as they half-tumbled into Crowley's (admittedly pristine) flat.

"S'not whiter, you're just drunk…er," Crowley tossed his coat in the general direction of the coat-rack and inclined his head for Aziraphale to do the same.

"Yes. Yes, I think you're right. Perhaps we should sober up, hmm?"

Sunglasses or no, Aziraphale could tell that Crowley was staring at him with the concentrated Gaze of the Undeniably Snockered.

"You can, if you'd like," Crowley said at length. "I think I'll just—It'll be easier, you know?"

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes closed against the cold rush of alcohol fleeing his system. "If you prefer," the angel said quietly.

Crowley settled himself into his sofa. His black-clad form sunk into the soft, white leather as though it were a cloud. Aziraphale smiled fondly.

"It's funny, I've never noticed before, but your flat—it's got a bit of a Heavenly decorating scheme, doesn't it? All white and lush, green plants. Some Eden nostalgia, my dear boy?"

The glare that Crowley leveled in Aziraphale's direction _could_ have killed, were angels mortal. "Are you inferring—implicating—implying… stuff?"

"Not at all," Aziraphale laughed. "Of course, if you _were _feeling nostalgic, it might be worth noting in my report."

"My flat is not a biblical allusion. It is a flat," Crowley grumbled testily. "Write whatever you want in your report," he amended, a little softer.

There was a long, stilted silence, during which neither of them moved for fear that they would have to be the one to initiate things. Finally, after a great deal of tense stillness, Crowley stood up, swayed slightly, and turned to Aziraphale.

"Well. It's been nice knowing you, old chap," he said with a grotesque imitation of cheer.

Aziraphale blinked at him.

"What? No proper goodbye?"

"Crowley, surely this won't be—It'll all blow over, right?"

Crowley found he couldn't meet the angel's eye just then. "Yeah. Of course. Hell's bound to forget eventually. They're so known for their flexibility, after all."

"Crowley, honestly," Aziraphale said, frustrated.

Crowley sighed and his body crumpled a little. "Look, angel, Aziraphale, I don't know what you want me to say. We had a decent run of it. Saved a world, raised an antichrist, tasted every wine in the northern hemisphere. But there's nothing to be done now, is there? You can't be around me, and I can't afford to piss off hell."

"I suppose there's…" Aziraphale said, trailing off uneasily. Crowley threw his hands in the air.

"You suppose there's _what_? Defection? Going rogue? Spitting in the face of ineffability? Enlighten me, o holy one," he spat venomously.

"There's this," Aziraphale said firmly, looking Crowley in the eye for the first time since their appetizers.

For an awkward moment, Crowley thought Aziraphale was trying to edge around him towards the door, but then there were arms around him and, apparently, angels were not above a little physical proximity when the situation demanded it.1

"Uhm, right…" Crowley muttered, somewhat into Aziraphale's hair. He smelled of wine, and not dust, as Crowley had assumed (or would have assumed, had he given it any thought, which he certainly had not, thank you). There was also a faint hint of divinity, just _there_, on the blurry edge, and it was enough to make Crowley's nostrils burn pleasantly.

"Just… Just try, alright?" Aziraphale said quietly, and Crowley understood. The angel needed closure, or comfort, or some silly thing like that, and Crowley found that he was not enough of a bastard to deny him, so he stood still and let himself be hugged, against his better--or worse--instincts.

"I can do that," Crowley whispered. He wasn't sure why he was whispering, but something about the moment felt terribly fragile, as though the vibrations of his voice might shatter it. It had to do with the angel's breath on his neck, and the steady thrum of their hearts, and the press of their mortality together, like the cracked halves of some forgotten whole.

In hindsight, neither would be able to pinpoint where it started. Perhaps it started with Aziraphale's fingers tangling in the soft hairs at the nape of Crowley's neck. Perhaps the beginning was Crowley's lips brushing the angel's cheek as they shifted closer. Perhaps it began in Rome, with a toga and a wink and a goat. Or in Finland, with a bed of furs and a freezing, howling night. One might argue it started at the dawn of time, when their beings were scooped from the single stream of nonexistence like water in some ineffable ladle.

Regardless, once it was started, it was a snowball that had been gathering for six millennia.

"Oh my," Aziraphale breathed into Crowley's skin.

"Angel…" Crowley hissed worryingly. He was mouthing along Aziraphale's jaw with admirable restraint, half-terrified that he was going to be struck by lightning or crushed to a fine powder by the hand of the Almighty himself. Or, worse, that the Aziraphale was going to change his mind. But Aziraphale didn't seem to be using that particular faculty just now, and Crowley found he was not particularly inclined to mention it. Aziraphale's eyes were not quite open, but his mouth was, so Crowley fit it against his own, pointedly not noticing the way their tongues pressed and slid in perfect tandem. It didn't feel _wrong_, exactly, when he let his hands slide down the angel's body, let his fingers hook in the belt loops of Aziraphale's trousers, pulling their hips together. Maybe it shouldn't have felt wrong. Maybe it should have.

"Oh. _Oh_," Aziraphale whispered. Crowley couldn't tell if this meant _oh how dreadful, I shall swoon_ or _oh_ the way Crowley was thinking _oh_, so he tried again, pressing their bodies together, sucking softly on Aziraphale's lip. This time there was a reaction of a different sort, and the word "effort" sprung to mind, along with the words "yes" and "please" and "about bloody time."

Somehow, they were moving, stumbling and unsteady in their embrace, possibly because one half of the embrace was still drunk, possibly because both halves had sacrificed basic motor functions for the sake of another (rather basic) function. Still, the door to Crowley's bedroom was far away, and the floor was right there, and after a few wobbly near-falls, Crowley's knees abandoned him and they slumped to the floor.

It was insane, absolutely unfathomable the way this _felt_—the sharp press of Aziraphale's thigh between his legs, the wetness of that red, ripe mouth, the frantic, almost desperate motions of the angel's body as it twisted and hummed in Crowley's grasp.

"This isn't—" Aziraphale started to say.

"Sssin? No. No, it'sss not."

Aziraphale pulled away for a moment, staring down at Crowley with large, sad eyes, and it was a good thing Crowley didn't need his heart, because it seemed to stop working temporarily.

"Enough. This isn't enough," the angel whispered sweetly, cherubic and flushed, his hair falling across his forehead in gold tumbles.

Crowley found that despite his famed silver-tongue, he didn't have an awful lot to say to that, so he said nothing. He let his fingers speak for him, and with a flick and a thought, their clothes disappeared, never to be seen again.2

From there, it was just a matter of friction and time. Minutes bled together, and someone performed a minor miracle, sweat into oil, pain into pleasure, and Crowley wondered whether the faint, pale aura emanating from Aziraphale's damp skin could kill him. Then he decided that there must be worse ways to go. The motion of their bodies was sharp and fragile, trembling hands, raw lips, human bones overwhelmed with a stress and strain they were never intended to endure.3 Aziraphale made a terrible, wonderful, broken sound as his body gave out, and it sung through Crowley's flesh like a string being plucked—musical and wild and of the earth. Crowley thrust once, twice more, before his mouth fell open, and his eyes fell shut.

1 And the situation did-- _not_ Crowley, mind you.

2At least, as far as they knew. In reality, their ensembles had simply been relocated to a nearby dimension populated predominantly by misplaced socks.

3Probably. One must bear in mind that He did have a strange sense of humor.


	6. Chapter 6, in which a call is placed

Aziraphale dithered. He stood, walked across the room, straightened a book that was only marginally crooked, walked back to his chair, and sat down. He crossed his legs. He took a sip of his tea. He uncrossed his legs. The afternoon sauntered by, petulantly.

It had been three days since, well, That Thing That Happened, and Aziraphale was reluctant to admit that he was not coping as well as one might hope. In fact, dithering aside, he had managed to accomplish a startling amount of nothing since the last time he saw his associate. He'd averted a minor traffic accident the day before, but he wasn't even sure that counted since he was the one about to be struck by an automobile, and all he did was step out of the way.

No, it was not going well at all, this independent operations thing. Funnily enough, he'd never realized how much time he spent with Crowley until suddenly all those hours were heaped upon his lap, looking empty and forlorn. There'd been dinners, naturally, and lunches, and ducks to feed, and arguments to have, and wine to drink. In the wake of the apocalypse-that-wasn't, in particular, they'd developed a routine of practiced nonchalance, hoping that if they acted like nothing had happened, the universe would be too embarrassed to correct them. But now, well, _that_ was certainly out of the question.

It was, wasn't it? He'd thought about it—a lot, actually—and there didn't seem to be anything for it. It'd been one thing for Aziraphale to loiter in Crowley's general vicinity without much effort at redeeming his soul (assuming he had such a thing), but it was quite another when _his_ halo was on the line. Suddenly, Aziraphale felt quite selfish. He'd been perfectly content with Crowley's existence at stake, but as soon as the wings were on the other back, Aziraphale had given up his only—oh, for Heaven's sake—_friend_ without a second blink.

Aziraphale decided that hot chocolate was in order, and so his teacup turned into a mug, and its contents took the hint.

But why, then, had Crowley not had the same reaction? They'd gone on for weeks with Crowley knowing full well that Aziraphale's Purpose ran counter to his interests, but _he_ hadn't complained about it. He'd trusted Aziraphale to keep his flaming sword to himself, only Aziraphale hadn't returned the favor.

Oh dear, it was all terribly unnerving. So unnerving, in fact, that Aziraphale had just decided to reorganize his receipts for the fifth time when the phone rang. Assertively. Somehow, Crowley's calls always managed to sound more insistent.

"Hello," Aziraphale said hesitantly.

There was a cracking noise on the other end of the line, followed by the unpleasant sound of a receiver being dropped.

"Crowley? Crowley?" Aziraphale called out. Something in his chest felt hot and urgent, sprung to life after a long and leisurely hibernation.

The line went dead, but Aziraphale was already out the door.


	7. Chapter 7, in which there is gore

It smelled of iron and sulfur in the hallway outside Crowley's flat. Iron and sulfur and deep, abiding hate. Hate was something only angels could smell, and it smelled like death, but more bitter, more aggressive. Aziraphale stopped breathing, but it was already in his nostrils.

He didn't knock. Always, _always_ since the beginning of The Arrangement, since the beginning of time, Aziraphale had knocked and Crowley had barged in unannounced. But tonight things were different, and the air was too still.

When the door swung open, there was nothing but black.

"Crowley?"

It came out like a question, as though he didn't know that the demon wasspit there, as though he hadn't been able to feel him since the moment he set foot in the building.

"Angel," came the cool reply.

There was something wrong. Aziraphale knew it like he knew Good from Evil, like he knew the heavens. He fumbled for the light switch, momentarily forgetting that he could shine pure divine light anytime he felt the need.1

The perfect, white floor was painted with blood like terrible art, as was the soft, white leather furniture. Somehow, it still seemed _clean_, like the blood was there for decoration, and please don't touch, it was dreadfully expensive. It was almost a full minute before he noticed Crowley sprawled on the sofa like a cheap prop in a horror show.

"What on earth happened to you?" Aziraphale heard himself say, practically splashing in blood to kneel at Crowley's side.

"Try _what in hell_," Crowley muttered, sliding his eyes towards Aziraphale's shocked face. It was odd – he'd never seen the angel look quite so aghast at anything he'd ever done. It almost made the pain worth it. Almost.

"What did you do?" Aziraphale asked, his hands hovering uselessly over the demon's impeccably black, though doubtlessly bloody, shirt.

"What did _I_ do? I chained myself to a big, spinning wheel and had at myself for target practice," he grunted, struggling to sit up.

"I mean, what did you do to leave them feeling so… _human_ Down There?" Aziraphale said with a slight shudder.

"Well…" Crowley said, trailing off strategically and waggling his eyebrows in a particularly expressive manner that spoke, if not volumes, then complete sentences at the very least.

"Crowley!"

"Yes, you keep saying that," Crowley mumbled absently.

"Oh dear. Oh. Oh dear. I didn't think – I thought, _if anything_, that _I'd_ be the one to…"

"To get flayed alive and half-discorporated by a bunch of idiots with brimstone for brains?"

Aziraphale sighed. "You know what I mean."

Crowley rolled his eyes, which looked an awful lot like doing nothing at all, what with the black glasses, except that Aziraphale could always tell, somehow.

"You're in the clear," Crowley said.

"Maybe I'm not! Maybe Up There is just waiting for things to settle down. Reports can take weeks to make it to the disciplinary department. They might just be sitting on their hands until I pop up for a—"

"You're not in trouble! For Somebody's sake, sit down. And hand me that flask."

Aziraphale crossed his arms for moment, but then complied. "How do you know? Did Down There have intelligence or something?"

Crowley took a long, slow sip before replying. He winced slightly at the sensation of the alcohol on his split lip, but he was far and away too exhausted to miracle any injuries away.

"Yes. And they know about us. Obviously," he added bitterly. He thought he could still feel blood trickling down the back of his neck and he wondered if he should mention it. He took another swig from the posh, silver flask. "_Everybody_ knows. It'll probably be on the nightly news."

Aziraphale looked for a moment as though he might faint, but he seemed to think better of it when Crowley lost his grasp on his drink and flinched as it tumbles to the floor.

"Here, let me just—" Aziraphale scooped up the spilled flask and placed it on the shiny glass coffee table, which had probably never seen a coffee in its shiny glass life.

"Give me that!"

"Be quiet. Where are you hurt?" Aziraphale asked, reaching for Crowley's shirt.

Crowley curled in on himself like a frightened animal. "Just a moment there, Casanova. Just because you had your way with me once—"

Aziraphale sighed louder than one might think possible. "You're being _difficult_."

"I'm not being—look, it's not… _pretty_. Alright? So don't go all swooning and polite, will you?" Crowley uncurled slightly, like a delicate flower in the first days of spring.

"I am an _angel_, my dear. We have swords and things. I've seen more than my fair share of—Oh _goodness_!" Aziraphale fairly shouted, his eyes darting across Crowley's chest.

It was not so much 'wounds' as it was 'wound.' More wound than chest, in fact. The skin-to-internal-organs ratio was a bit lower than a mortal might prefer, or even survive, and Crowley looked, unsurprisingly, exposed and uncomfortable.

"You don't have any skin left," Aziraphale said, almost wonderingly.

"I have! A bit. See? Right there, between those ribs."

"How long have you been sitting here all… gutted?"

"I'm not what you'd call certain, really."

"What did they even _do_?" Aziraphale asked in horrified awe.

"They had me down for tea, what do _you_ think?" Crowley readjusted again, this time so that his head rested gingerly on the arm of his poor, soaked sofa. "Look, if you're not going to put me out of my misery, can we perhaps save the logistics for another time and make with the divine healing and whatnot?" His eyes felt heavy, like there were tiny dumbbells on each of his eyelashes, but he sensed, on a human level, that he should probably stay awake a little longer.

"Of course," Aziraphale said gravely.

Contrary to every televangelist ever, angels did not heal humans. At least, it was considered crass in the more respectable heavenly circles. So it'd been a while since Aziraphale had healed a man, let alone a man-shaped being, and he wasn't entirely certain he'd be successful. He wanted to pray about it, but it seemed inappropriate.

With the face of someone about to perform impromptu brain surgery (which isn't so far off, actually), Aziraphale placed his hand in the center of the red and squishy area that used to be Crowley's chest. He was pretty sure the only thing keeping Crowley from being discorporated was pure stubbornness, but even bodies fueled by demonic impetuousness had their limitations, and Aziraphale could feel Crowley's nearing its.

"Could be worse, I suppose. At least they sent me up here to, how did they put it? 'Crawl like the filth I am until the end of days,' instead of keeping me… local."

"You got fired?" Aziraphale asked, looking alarmed.

"Nah. Not officially. They suspended me for Lack of Enthusiasm for the Pursuit of Evil. I think it's just Hell's way of keeping its collective arse out of the fire. Apparently, I'm more of an embarrassment than I'm worth."

It took concentration to revive the cells and molecules and other tiny earthly things that make a body, and Aziraphale didn't realise how tense he was until Crowley moves and he almost squealed.

"Oy, careful there," Crowley said softly. The skin on his chest was thin and sort of iridescent, but there was a lot more of it than there had been a minute ago, for which he was thankful. He was also thankful, against his better judgment, for Aziraphale's smooth fingers on his sternum. They were warm and comforting, which was ironic, since those hands were the reason for all the oozing and whatnot, however indirectly.

"Sorry, so sorry," Aziraphale muttered absently. He looked far off and focused. "Crowley?" He said quietly.

Crowley's head fell back and he closed his eyes, no longer concerned that they wouldn't open again. "Yes, angel?"

"Tell me again, how do you know I'm not to be called Up for our – for us?"

Crowley let out a sigh. He'd known it'd come to this. He'd known from the moment he touched the angel's naked skin that it would all come down to crippling humiliation and self-effacement. "Because your representatives were there, too."

"What?"

"Heaven, hell, a few go-betweens. It was the event of the season."  
"But why would heaven—"

"Because They had a stake in it too, now didn't They? Wanted to see if I tempted you or if you were trying to _save_ me, or some other absurd thing like that," Crowley spat bitterly.

Aziraphale's hand, the one on Crowley's nearly-whole torso, felt like it was on fire, and the sudden, desperate importance of the moment knocked the breath out of him, not that he needs it.

"Crowley, what did you do?"

"I told them… I told them it was, you know, the second thing. The idiotic one that most certainly did _not_ happen," he added sharply.

Aziraphale shook his head. "No, it wouldn't. But you, you said that _I_ tempted you to be _good_?" Aziraphale felt confused and more than a little horrified.

"If you want to put it that way. Although, I think your choice of words leaves something to be desired."

"You lied to them. You lied to _them_, Crowley, why did you do that?"

"For you, you stupid tosser. I'm a demon; we're built for torture. You, you're all delicate and squishy 'round the middle. You wouldn't have lasted ten minutes once heaven got hold of you. They'd have had your halo on a hook and your wings for curtains, angel, I'm telling you. They were fuming," Crowley ranted. It took effort, and his lungs hadn't quite re-acclimated to having flesh all over them. He still refused to open his eyes, more out of horror now than exhaustion.

A long, slow minute sidled by, in no apparent hurry.

"You… You lied to _protect_ me?" Aziraphale asked, sounding a little baffled.

Crowley opened his eyes deliberately and glanced at Aziraphale.

"Could you please not make it sound so damn soppy? It was selfish, that's what it was. If they'd torn you to shreds, I doubt you'd be half as good in bed." He let out a small grunt of pain without meaning to, and yes, there was definitely still blood dripping down the back of his neck, and his hands and feet were a little numb and tingly.

There was a quiet snort, then an even quieter pressure on Crowley's cheek. Aziraphale's hand against his face was oddly alarming in a way that the hand on his chest was not. The hand on his chest had a purpose. The hand on his cheek probably did too, come to mention it, but not one that Crowley particularly felt like sussing out at the moment.

"Aaangel…" he groaned warily.

"Be quiet, my dear," Aziraphale said. His fingers ghosted over Crowley's lips, which were cool and still bloody. He sealed the cut with his fingertip, and sealed Crowley's mouth with his lips.

There was a long moment of absolute stillness. No one moved, no one made a sound, no one breathed. Finally, Crowley turned his head away a little and said, warm and close, "Uhm, angel?"

Aziraphale closed his eyes.

"Yes, Crowley?"

Crowley cleared his throat quietly.

"Does it occur to you that this is, you know, blatant and undeniable defiance of our respective superiors?"

"Do you even have superiors at the moment?"

"Fair point."

"And if I recall correctly, Up There has a personal stake in our continued fraternization," Aziraphale said thickly, his lips grazing the corner of Crowley's mouth as he spoke. "It's just. You lied for me, Crowley, do you understand what that means? Do you understand why that is so very important?"

"No…" Crowley said slowly. His still-numb fingertips seemed to be digging into Aziraphale's arm, and he wasn't sure how that had happened, but he couldn't figure out how to stop.

"You did something selfless. Something, dare I say, Good?"

Crowley made a small annoyed sound in the back of his throat and rolled his eyes, again. "Why must you insult me?"

Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley, though he could not see it, felt it against his cheek. "It means you have _potential_."

"I have what now?"

"You, my dear, have F.A.R.P."

"I do not!"

"Crowley, it's not a bad thing."

"Exactly! And I am. I am a _very_ bad thing!"

Aziraphale let his mouth slip against Crowley's again, for a moment, and it had the desired effect of cutting him off mid-rant.

"All the more reason I should carry on _trying to save you_." It was not technically possible for an angel to be mischievous, but Aziraphale did a good impression.

"Are you serious? You are, aren't you?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said solemnly, "yes, I think I rather am. If you want me to be, of course."

Before Crowley could reply, delicate hands were removing his glasses, making his eyes smart. Crowley blinked rapidly, like a newborn foal, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the light—only, after a few seconds he realized that it was Aziraphale shining rather more than usual.

"You're really serious."

The angel smiled. "So you've said."

For one tenuous, heart-stopping moment, Crowley didn't move. There were several reasons why this was probably not a Good Idea, and quite a few of them involved words like "flaying," and "ooze." But there was one thing Crowley couldn't seem to ignore, and it was the way his black and scaly little soul reacted when Aziraphale was near. It shot bolts of protectiveness and contentedness through Crowley's ethereal being, and it made the thought of being alone seem unbearable, even though he was alone in hell and never knew the difference. But now he knew, and it seemed that this time the angel was the one holding out the shiny, red apple.

Crowley was tempted.

As best he could, Crowley leaned up, trying to kiss Aziraphale hard enough that he wouldn't have to think about what it all meant and why it felt so bloody good. Fortunately, Aziraphale reciprocated as enthusiastically as he could without getting blood all over his shirt.

Careful hands found their way to Crowley's belt, mindful of his chest, and Crowley could do nothing but twitch and moan and try not to move as Aziraphale's blessed, damned fingers squeezed and twisted and grasped at him with startling grace. A hint of vulnerability was just beginning to creep into Crowley's mind when Aziraphale pulled away and looked down at him.

"Am I—Is this too much? You're hurt and I. Is it?" Aziraphale asked, pleasingly out of breath.

Crowley could do nothing but smile and shake his head, helpless and undone, weak and willing and completely, utterly unconcerned. Without a second glance, Aziraphale slid down his body. After that, there was little else worth noting, except that apparently Crowley wasn't the only one who'd learned to make the most of the human tongue. And jaw. And throat.

1Though it didn't seem polite, given whose flat he was in.


	8. Chapter 8, in which our story ends

They were on the floor of the living room, curled close and quiet, breathing each other's air. There was still a lot of blood about, though Crowley had tried to banish it. It had sunk into their skin in streaks like war paint. The sun was struggling to rise, hovering aimlessly beneath the horizon. Light seeped into the room, all rose and gold, and it caught in the curls of Aziraphale's hair. They hadn't moved in what felt like ages, save for their fingers, which twined and squeezed and grasped endlessly.

"I'll be alright, you know," Crowley whispered.

Aziraphale opened his eyes.

"I'm out of the job and all, but I'm not going to go take a holy water bath or anything. You don't have to worry," he said.

"I know that," Aziraphale said, looking confused. "Do you think—you can't possibly believe this is charity on my part."

"Well, it wouldn't be out of character," Crowley said plainly. The only thing worse, he imagined, than being alone was being with someone because that someone felt they had a responsibility.

Aziraphale seemed to consider this for a moment.

"Charity is for those in need. I harbor no illusions that you need me, therefore, this is not charity." Aziraphale's hands, his perfect, pristine fingers, glided through Crowley's hair with a tenderness that Crowley felt certain he should resent. "_But_, even if you did—need me, that is—that would be alright, you know. I'd fight for you if, need be."

Crowley exhaled into the crook of Aziraphale's neck. They were so tangled, sweat-soaked and sticky against each other's skin, that Crowley wondered if they would ever be able to extract themselves. How did mortals _do_ this? Surely they would starve.

Some part of Crowley's brain registered that Aziraphale was still talking, but he found himself lacking focus.

"And I'm sorry, really."

"What?" Crowley asked, sitting up a little.

"I didn't trust you. I realise that now."

Crowley laughed, and the sound was only half bitter. "Because trusting a demon is always a smart turn. Actually, come to mention it, _healing_ a demon probably isn't a brilliant career move, either."

"This isn't about trusting a demon. It's about trusting a friend."

Aziraphale dipped close, pressing his lips to Crowley's forehead.

"Friend? Is that what they're calling it? Well, you certainly are _friendly_," Crowley said, giving a serpentine flick of his hips.

"You know what I mean," Aziraphale said, without much irritation.

"Unfortunately," Crowley murmured, relaxing back into Aziraphale's body.

"Besides. Though I'm sure you loathe admitting it, you never doubted me. Why didn't you?"

"You're an angel," Crowley offered lamely.

"Of course. And you're so close with Gabriel."

"It's not. It's just. It's _you_, isn't it? It's us. We're not…" Crowley hissed subconsciously and rubbed his eyes. "I couldn't hurt you if I wanted to, could I?"

Aziraphale smiled.

"Besides, you know all my tricks. Haven't been able to get one over on you in ages."

"Do you ever want to? Hurt me?"

Crowley cringed.

"Only when you ask me stupid questions."

For a moment, it looked as though Aziraphale was going to keep blathering, but he seemed to think better of it. "I'm just glad, that's all," he said finally.

"Glad?"

"That you're alright. That you're not in a pit somewhere. That I can trust you. I need you around a good deal more than I was previously aware."

"Need me? Does that make this charity on my part?"

"Of course not, my dear. I'd never accuse you of such a thing."

"Good. All of it. 's good," Crowley said, burrowing into Aziraphale's warm skin.

The sun did rise, eventually, but Aziraphale and Crowley did not. At least, not for several extremely pleasant days.


End file.
